The Hearts of Those Left Behind
by RestInChaos
Summary: Cora thought there was nothing left of her after the archdemon fell, but the world kept asking for more. If she were lucky, she would die this go around. Someone had told her once, that she was a worthless hack. It was a hard truth. She was just a bug trying to move the world. Nathaniel/Cousland/Alistair.
1. Chapter 1

There's little to say, really. I have multiple Dragon Age ideas and this is the one I'm furthest in. Though I have a few chapters written up, I cannot say how frequently it will be updated.

Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy it. I do not own Dragon Age or its franchise.

* * *

_And So She Grieved._

The Hero of Ferelden. It was a title many yearned for, but only a rare few were exceptional enough for the position. It was a title that symbolized honor and strength, and the love that sacrificed everything else for a nation. For Ferelden. Cora Cousland would tell you otherwise, however. She would tell you it called out the few people who were in the right place at the wrong time. That was how she saw her title as the Hero of Ferelden, anyhow. Anyone could have done what she did – anyone _would_ have done what she did. She just so happened to be that person.

And so, all of the nation spoke of her triumphs. It was as the bard said. Cora Cousland's journey became a tale to tell the nation, a story for all of Ferelden.

Unlike most stories, there were only two versions of her tale. There was the version told by the masses, of vague exaggerations based on the people's kernels of truth. This version spoke of dragons and blood lust and evil-doers, and of a beautiful woman riding in on horse to redeem the wrongdoings of a country. It spoke of a personal army whose most defining moment became the fiercest battle in generations.

Then there was the version told by a small few. If you were to ever walk by one of these people, you would not look at them twice. You would think them as normal as yourself. These people were once a group – an elf, a mage, a bard, a dwarf, a golem, and a Qunari. These few people had their own version of the story behind the Hero of Ferelden, and while they wouldn't share the details, they would all insist one thing needed to be clarified. It was not the fiercest battle of generations that was the Hero of Ferelden's defining moment.

That came the night before, on the last night she and her companions would ever set camp together.

Much like every aspect of her life, Cora Cousland had returned with less than what she left with. The others at camp could remember the day clearly. She left with regal determination, and three others following behind her. She left with her head high, her eyes focused, and a demeanor that said, '_I am Cousland_.' She returned with silence. There was no demeanor, no attitude, outside of her set jaw and darkened eyes. But of all the things they noticed different in her return, was one particular man.

Loghain Mac Tir was someone Cora had set out to see dead. They all knew this upon joining her travels. He had left an army and a king to die at the hands of beasts. He had poisoned nobility, tortured prominent men, allowed crimes to march on under his watch, all so that he could rule. Yet, despite all his crimes, he was there and alive, and in place of someone else.

They all noticed Alistair's absence. It was hard not to. He was tall, and often loud, but more importantly, he was always at Cora's side.

None of the companions who remained at camp knew what happened in the Landsmeet, the gathering of nobles from throughout Ferelden to decide a ruler. They did not know if they had been victorious. Cora had stormed across camp to her tent where she was quick to dodge inside. Loghain… Loghain had placed himself where Alistair once stood, albeit unknowingly.

The others watched with questioning gazes. After several moments of tension, Cora left her tent after storing the Cousland shield inside, having only worn it for appearance sake in the Landsmeet, and walked to the fire. She was quiet for a long while, even knowing all eyes were on her. Her eyes were glued to the fire and upon looking back on that fact, this group realizes that perhaps Cora Cousland couldn't look the others in the eye. Perhaps she didn't want to see their concerns for her. Perhaps that would have broken her.

They watched her, unaware of this faltering then, as her lips parted and a voice empty of anything but authority left her. "Anora is queen," She had told them, "Loghain has been spared and under Riordan's suggestion, he has undergone the Joining. He will fight for Ferelden to his death."

It did not escape the others' notice that Alistair was not mentioned. It did not escape them, that perhaps she couldn't bare say his name. It was Leliana, a bard with talent both beautiful and deadly, who told them of his fate. From Cora's side, the woman looked to the others around her, a frown deeper than they had ever seen on her face. "Alistair… He left," She said, rubbing her hands tightly together.

All the questions the group may have had, vanished. They knew, then. They knew Leliana meant more than just them. He left Cora. He left her and she was to carry on without him.

It went late into the night, and none of them could sleep. They all sat up, awake, worrying. They worried about the coming battle against darkspawn, they worried about Loghain's loyalty to the Grey Wardens, and they worried about Cora. She said nothing, sitting by the fire and wringing her fingers throughout the night. She did not look to the others, she did not speak to them. She sat, and she waited.

The others could do nothing to ease her pain, if she felt any. They had not known her mourning process. They did not know if she would fall apart at the mention of Alistair. They did not know if she would fall apart, at all. They did not want to risk it. It made tensions high, and they all felt as though they were walking on eggshells. Any wrong move could set a chain of events into action that would, subsequently, ruin Cora Cousland. Wynne knew this most of all. The next few moments for Cora could make or break her, and breaking her was too much a risk.

It was for most people, anyway. Even Shale, a golem hardened both physically and mentally, and Sten, a Kossith not accustomed to ways of humans, did not approach Cora. There was only one person at the camp who damned all the risks to the Void.

With a loud belch and a hand raised into the air, a redheaded dwarf called her out. "Hey, Warden, come 'ere," He yelled into the silence of the camp, startling them all out of their nervous reveries. Cora glanced toward him with a blank stare before pushing herself to her feet. She removed herself from the fire and approached Oghren, who nodded toward her. "I was thinking, we've been through a lot together now. We're like old war buddies. So I figured, why not invite you to share a drink?" He leaned forward, ignoring the cautious stares from the others as he added, "A drink from my own stash, my family's recipe and dedicated to my comrades in arms."

Cora watched him for a second, surprised. Oghren never offered a drink to anyone. The events of the day, however, were harrowing and _why_ a drink was being offered was not going to be questioned by Cora, who sorely needed it. Her shoulders eased as she sat down across from Oghren, answering with a nod, "I would very much like that."

Oghren laughed, leaning backward as his armored torso shook. "Yes! The Warden steps up!" He exclaimed as he held a mug of copper-colored liquid out for Cora to take. She grabbed the mug from him, eying the dwarf as she brought the mug to her nose and sniffed. There were many ingredients she could smell, most of all being the strong scent of ale and musk. All of Cora's inhibitions, all of her hesitancy and all her worries, were thrown away as she kicked her head back and took a large swig. Oghren's grin just grew wider, his eyes sparkling as Cora lowered her head and wiped the back of her gloved hand across her mouth. "You handled that like a champion, my friend," He told her with a laugh, "Most impressive! How do you feel?"

Cora rocked the mug around in her hand, watching what was left of Oghren's alcohol swish around inside it. It had been a long time since she felt the burn of ale in her throat, the last being when she was still just daughter of a Teyrn. The memories of her old life played in her mind, but the alcohol eased the pain of it. Bringing the mug to her lips once more, her brows twitched upward as she murmured, "It's not bad."

"That's the spirit!" He replied, pounding a fist into the air. He took a swig of his own drink, and his grin began to fade. He shrugged, motioning a lazy hand toward her as he leaned his elbows onto on his knees. "I-I just… Wanted to tell you, after all we've been through… You're like family to me. Closest thing I've had in years."

Cora lowered her mug, her eyes softening in Oghren's direction. The corners of her lips pulled upward, and she realized she was smiling. It was not a strong smile, not like it was before the Landsmeet, but it was there. And there was emotion in her eyes – not as strong, or as loving, or happy, but still there. Looking down at Oghren, she realized that she would live. She would hurt, and she would perhaps not be the same, but she _would_ live. She did after her family was murdered, and this, however fresh this betrayal may have felt, was no different. Lifting a hand toward Oghren, Cora nodded toward him slowly. "A toast to comrades, Oghren"

Oghren nodded as well. He may have been a drunk, and the others may have thought him pathetic, but he was not blind. Cora was hurting, and she would need time. Raising his mug toward hers, he said, "Aye, a toast." He snorted and grinned once more, eying her suspiciously, "But that's all of my brew you're getting, Warden."

With that conversation, the tensions in camp eased just enough for everyone to end the day. They all retired to their tents, with the exception of Shale, the dwarven golem Cora recruited early in her travels. Inside her tent, Cora began to remove her armor. Her Cousland armor. She slid off her scaled gloves, and her long, pale fingers pushed memories to the front of her mind of running them down a toned chest. She could even feel him on her fingertips still. Leaning down, she pulled out of her boots and felt the cool air nipping at her feet. Her hands unlatched the scaled chest-plate and moved toward the engraved collar, removing her armor entirely. A soft wind brushed against her back and for a moment, she could have mistook it for him, pulling her into his body.

Gripping at her armor, Cora stared down at it with a mixture of emotions. She had clung to what possessions she had from her old life as much as she could. She tended to her armor carefully, making sure it lasted through her travels. While her companions upgraded their equipment and found new armor to wear, she kept what she began with. She looked at her armor, and she saw her family staring back at her in the reflections of the materials. She saw the first day her father gave her the armor, and the first ceremony she wore it to. She saw her nephew ogling it in her bedroom, claiming to one day be big enough to wear something similar.

Now, she just saw Alistair.

A sudden wave of anger came over her. He didn't just walk away from her. He left them, all of them, when they were about to face the Blight. He left her and the Grey Wardens to fight the Archdemon without him, and in turn left a nation to die. He left _her_ to die. In order to avoid Loghain, Alistair became him. That dug the cut even deeper. She had invested every part of her being into loving him, she had pushed memories of her family aside to make way for new memories of him, and he walked away so easily.

Standing from her bedroll with this realization, she dumped her armor into a blanket and quickly threw on whatever piece of clothing she could find in her tent. Tying the armor into a bundle, she burst out of her tent and made way to the other side of camp.

The others were asleep, but Shale was not. She noticed Cora marching across camp, and she rose her head to watch the scene. Bundle of armor in hand, Cora reached the lake not far behind Bodahn's cart and began to wade through the water. Once knee deep, she untied the knot in her hand and hoisted the bag into the air. The armor tumbled out of it, crashing into the water. She bent over, pushing her armor to the ground and digging it into the bottom of the lake. She began putting more pressure into it, more speed, and within seconds, she was no longer digging and instead, hitting and kicking. Whatever her anger permitted her to do to push it further into the ground, to keep it from rising to the surface of the lake.

Shale watched Cora as she performed this task, as she exhausted herself in her fit of rage. After a series of abuse toward her armor, Cora slowed in her movements. Everything her armor once was, everything it once meant to her, was reduced to a dirty pile of junk in the lake. A part of her still ached over the memories of her family being attached to it, but more prominent were the feelings of betrayal and abandonment. More prominent were the memories of Alistair removing her armor, some times out of pleasure, and others out of worry over injuries. Whatever the reason, they were always tender. That made it hurt worse.

Panting, Cora looked around her, at the water lapping around her knees. Still, and quiet, even after she beat into it with all her strength. She lifted her hands and examined them. Her palms and the back of her hands were already turning black and blue, and her knuckles were bleeding, raw. A bitter chuckled escaped amidst her panting at the thought of it. All that anger, all that violence, and it only hurt her even more. Meanwhile, the atmosphere was still, and quiet, and no matter how hard she could hit, that wouldn't change.

Leliana had gone to her, right after the Landsmeet. Loghain and Riordan were preparing for the Joining, and Sten was watching over Loghain. This had left Cora to her thoughts. And so, Leliana came to her. "Are you alright?" The bard had asked her, "After what happened…"

Cora shrugged it all off. "It matters little," She'd answered. It hadn't mattered. It still didn't. Cora was a Cousland, and a Warden. She would give for her people, regardless of how she felt. That didn't take away any of the pain, though.

There was surprise from Leliana. She no doubt expected Cora to break down, or need an ear to vent to, yet there was nothing. Cora Cousland was not a woman who cried. She was nobility, a woman of equality and pragmatism, and crying solved nothing. Leliana did not, perhaps could not, believe this. "Of course it matters! You are hurting, you need to grieve! Everyone does," She had insisted.

Still, Cora stood against it. She had maintained her persona, unable to look Leliana in the eye. "I am a Grey Warden. That is my duty, and my priority. I have no time for anything else. If I ever do have that time, when I can rest, then I will grieve. That is not now."

Looking down at her hands, Cora felt her shoulders begin to shake. Her hands trembled, and the weight of her loss came crashing down on her shoulders. She lost him. She lost Alistair. Cora picked her head up, gazing around her at the still water, the closed tents at camp, the stars above her. Here was her time for something else. Here was her rest.

For the first time since she was a child, Cora let herself grieve.


	2. Chapter 2

Call this… The Prologue, Part Two!

I won't be skipping between characters every chapter, I just wanted to emphasize where everyone is at. As I said, a two-parter prologue of sorts.

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_And So He Left_

Whether it was the sway of the ship or his own damned exhaustion, Alistair did not care.

He had boarded one as soon he reached the coast above Denerim. It didn't take him long, but word moved even faster. Anora was queen. Loghain was warden. A combination of armies were marching for Redcliffe. There the darkspawn would be fought, the war ended, and Thedas saved. One big miraculous event for the world. One big miraculous event, that he would not be around to witness if luck leaned his way.

The ship he was on was a crowded one. The sailors were shady, and the refugees were fearful. They all watched him, though. He couldn't blame them. He had made a scene at the docks. He scared the women and their children, put the men on their guard. All the way from Denerim, he had marched with an even stare, his armor untouched. It was the docks where he pulled it off him, where he threw the chain-mail into the waters below, where he demanded passage to the soonest ship out of Ferelden.

He would have been ashamed if he still cared.

Forgoing the swishing motions of the ship, he glanced around him. He balanced atop a barrel, resting against the wall. Refugees gathered around the lower deck, sitting on anything they were allowed to, huddled into the loved ones they had left. Some tried lightening the mood. They whispered to each other, occasionally bringing someone else into conversation. They gossiped.

The Hero of Ferelden. Alistair wanted to scoff, cry out, hit something, do anything to show his misery. That's what Fereldans were calling her now. They hadn't even finished the war, and Cora was getting a title for it. He knew he couldn't blame them. Cora had done some remarkable things to end the Blight. Why doubt her now? Even in his state of disdain, he recognized this. That damn woman could lead an army of the lame against the Blight and probably win if she was determined enough. Ferelden could sense this. For starters, she was Bryce Cousland's daughter, and Bryce was a man of action. A man of heroism. People remembered Bryce, and Cora proved to be no different.

His head lulled forward and he ran a hand through his messy hair, pulling at it with the intent of self-harm and maybe the hope of yanking a clump or two. No more. No more thinking about her. He knew what he left, he didn't need to remind himself.

Leaving was stupid. There was no getting around that. It was childish, and it was stupid. But he wouldn't – he _couldn't_ – stand beside Loghain, not after everything that man did. Alistair had lost what little family he had, what little family wanted him, to Loghain's treachery. He wasn't the only one. Women lost their husbands, men lost their wives, parents lost their children, and children lost their parents. Thousands of soldiers died on the battlefield because of one man's political desires.

She had to have known how that felt. He was so sure she did. He was so sure that Cora understood his pain, knew where he was coming from, and was willing to make sure he got the revenge he needed. The same way she got hers. Howe killed her family, didn't he? Didn't Alistair deserve that same justice for Duncan? Didn't all those citizens deserve it? What made her so much more special?

Maybe he should have asked her. Maybe he should have gotten an explanation. He shook his head, letting it fall against the wall of ship. It hit with a thud, painful enough to spark a migraine, loud enough to make a child near him jump at the broken silence.

There would have been no point asking. Cora had a brilliant mind. She could have spouted out a hundred different reasons, a hundred different excuses as to why she spared the man behind so much death. She probably would have convinced him. Despite all his anger, he would have melted under her hard stare, fell pray to her confident voice, and he would have let it go. He would have agreed that _Duncan's killer_ should be made a Warden, and that was something he would have regretted forever afterward. He would have resented Cora far more than he already was.

Leaving was stupid, but it was best.

That didn't make it any easier to deal with the absence of the woman he loved, though. Closing his eyes, he tried to ignore the flashes of her face, the hints of her scent, and the imaginations that ran wild knowing he walked away from his lover, who was about to take on the world's greatest fear, now alone.

_Maker, watch over her._

•

_I am sorry, Nathaniel, and I will be here to help you any way I can. Take care._

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop reading it. He couldn't break away from the crudely spelled out words in front of him, he couldn't ignore the voice in his head that told him of his father's death over and over again until he accepted it. And he especially couldn't stop the anger bubbling up from his stomach.

Bann Esmerelle. That was who told him of the events that took place in Denerim. That sniveling con of a woman was how he found out his father was dead. No one else bothered to tell him. Not the Seneschal, not anyone. They would have left him out in the dark, just as they did Delilah's death, it would seem. Rendon Howe wasn't just dead, however. He was murdered, by the Gray Wardens. By this proclaimed _Hero of Ferelden_, of all people.

He knew little about this person. He knew only what he had heard through gossip and rumor. It was a large man, one who intimidated with as little as a hard stare and an intense frown. It was a woman, almost scorching the earth she strode across. It was a noble, it was an elf, a mage, he had even heard rumors that it was a Tal-Vashoth. He believed the most detail oriented rumor, the one he heard from several different sources. That rumor was that the Hero of Ferelden was the sole survivor of the Cousland family.

It was the most believable one, albeit the most painful one to accept. He knew the Couslands. The Howes and the Couslands were more than close, and not just politically. There was a long-standing friendship and camaraderie between Bryce and Rendon, and that opened doors for friendship between their children. Nathaniel knew Fergus and Cora, very much so. Fergus was a trusted friend at one time, Cora a close companion. Thomas and Delilah sought out the two Cousland children as well.

The news that his father invaded Highever was a hard pill to swallow at the time. Fergus had a wife and child. Cora had so many aspirations. What could they possibly have done? He learned what they could have done not long after the Couslands' fall spread through the Free Marches. Everyone there mourned their death. Bryce was once considered to be the man who should have been king, after all. Little did they know that Bryce was conspiring with Orlais. Little did they know what kind of treachery seeped through Highever estate.

He looked out the window of the estate he had lived in for the past eight years, asking himself questions he knew he would likely not get any answers to. Why was no one doing anything to see justice was done for the sake of his father? Rendon Howe stopped a conspiracy, that deserved some sort of consideration. And yet they looked at Rendon with disdain. Not only so, they offered his killer Vigil's Keep. The handed over Nathaniel's home, Rendon's and Thomas' and Delilah's home, to the Gray Wardens. Instead of revenge, there was reward. Why? Why was Loghain and Queen Anora in cahoots with the Wardens, the ones who seemed to bring only destruction?

And which Cousland was it that survived?

Eleanor would not have become a warden. She would have slipped into the politics of Denerim, unnoticed, and lashed out with a humiliating attack against the Howe family that would have crippled them. She was a kind woman, but she could easily turn into the most dangerous woman Nathaniel had ever met. Bryce would have gone to Eamon, or one of the Banns. He would have gathered help to retake Highever. Or perhaps he would have gone to Orlais.

Cora was… Cora. She was a confident women, regal, political – but she was not a woman of cold blooded vengeance. Nathaniel remembered her to be a clear-headed woman. She viewed all options, weighed all consequences, and then took action. A part of him couldn't see the reasoning behind killing her. Cora wasn't involved, she couldn't have been. She was smart enough for it, but she was far too loyal to her people and Ferelden, too happy and outgoing, to rely on deception and conspiracy. He paused, and shook his head. _Anyone is capable of betrayal._

Fergus was not the same. He was smart, though not in the same political way Cora was – his intelligence was in the field, fighting. He was brash sometimes, but all in the name of defending his home and his people. If any of the Couslands would have become a warden and killed Rendon for revenge, it was definitely Fergus. It had to be. He lost his parents, his sister, his wife and child. That would have fueled his blood lust. His drive.

This angered Nathaniel more.

Fergus was very involved with his father's work. He most likely knew about Bryce and Orlais. He probably helped. He had the gall to betray his country, then kill Rendon? _Delilah_? For all Nathaniel knew, Fergus very well could have had his own wife and child killed to fuel the fire of the Ferelden's growing hatred for Rendon.

No. Not even in his anger could Nathaniel believe that. That had to have been the work of a depraved soldier, one Rendon removed from his service after it happened. There was no way killing a child made sense, right?

It was just another question he would never get an answer for. No one would ever get the answer. Fergus Cousland killed the one man who could have given them that answer. Because he was too brash, too stupid, too full of himself to see that he and his family took that risk when they decided to betray Ferelden. All that, and Fergus was still offered Vigil's Keep.

Nathaniel looked to the bag by the door. Everything was in order. Everything was set. He stood from his cot and reached the entrance of his bedroom. He tossed the bag over his shoulder and spared the room one last glance, dropping Bann Esmerelle's condolence letter on the desk by the door. The estate was quiet that time of night. Dark. Still. It was a perfect time for him leave. And so he left.

He was going to do what the _Queen_ would not.

_Maker, watch over him until I'm there to kill the Hero of Ferelden myself._


End file.
